Saturday, August 31, 2013

Thank
God the trigger our Peace-Prize Prez has an itchy finger upon isn't a hairy one.

Sweet
Zeus – what is this maniac thinking? Better inquiry: who has what
on this man? There must be polaroids of his mom blowing a camel while
DP'd by cocaine-crazed Saudi sheiks in the hands of a
nefarious group of part men, part lizards who require the blood of young
humans to be spilled en mass and catastrophic mayhem in order to subsist. If he does not their
bidding, those images - plus more fit for neither man nor beast to lay
eyes upon - shall reach all major news outlets and worse yet: TMZ and
Yahoo! News and Twitter feeds the world over. That is the only explanation – unless he is a replicant engineered and trucked out by rogue ritalin habitués
of DARPA under strict orders by the
Security/Military/Banking/Monsanto/Complex to cause the Jenga tower
of Babel to collapse so they can don their polished armor, strut
on in and be perceived by the hot chick (who sat at the desk in front of
them and could never get with) as “heroes”. I see no other
logic, other than that. Perhaps if we brandish Occam's razor, and vie
for the most simple explanation, we may conclude thus: they are power junkies who could
care less if the planet burns to the core, so long as they get
their fix, and let those within light-shot of our planet who
might give two shits know that they are in command. Yes sir.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Walter Sickert, The Camden Town Murder, or What Shall We Do for the Rent?1

“I'll just go into work early.”
Those words did it. Annihilated an entire universe and sent a
wonderful and turbulent and sometimes sad and sometimes hilarious but
always lovely history into a frenzied tailspin...I cannot
determine whether or not recovery is possible.

Perhaps some context is in order. I
laid on the couch, my freshly dried clothes scattered about me from
where she had tossed them after taking them from the dryer. I liked
the warmth of the fabric. I did not like the bubbling and shlurping
going on within my gut. I put forth the effort to make do and act in
good spirits; this was, after all the first day off work ushering in
a four-day weekend for us. I didn't want to feel lousy, but I did.
Then she launched into a chipper and innocent reminder: “don't
forget my birthday wednesday. We're going to dinner.”

“what time?” I asked.

“around seven”

I thought about my hours of work,
and determined that I could pull it off, but I knew that there would
be much work to accomplish-- that I couldn't just “cut out early”;
that I'd have to go in early to finish early. But that's not it: the
way I said it – like
it was a hassle... that's
the part I didn't mean for, but no matter, the die is cast. My
stomach groaned and the following are

some of the words I vaguely remember
her saying: “I prayed you'd...never mind. That is
just who you are...
Unbelievable... You don't give a shit about me (possibly anybody, I
can't recall whether or not she said that)... (after I asked her to
forgive me) It's not about forgiveness...
This is the worst day in my life... I better get out of here before
I say something I'll regret...”

Those words punched into my spirit
like ice-cold blades.

Then the universe ended.

Here's
the kicker: why did I say that? Had that universe-ending trigger
phrase been implanted into me from the beginning and was awaiting
just the right opportunity – the proverbial perfect
storm upon
which spring into action? A trojan horse of a statement that the
destroyers had crafted and engineered for this exact moment in time?
My primary reaction yields an obvious clue: I immediately knew
as
the words commenced forth from my mouth the scale and magnitude of
the damage they were about to inflict. An overwhelming sense of
sadness and regret seized me (and now as I write this very thing a
Déjà
vu
transpires – I have seen these words, this scenario, before-
perhaps in a dream...) Though I may hold the state of my stomach
accountable, I hold myself in contempt. She is correct. I do not
give a shit about anything nor anyone. My entire gig is awaiting the
gran-finale, and killing time in the interim. But: just because I do
not give a shit about anybody, especially my crazy brown eyed
sweetheart, doesn't mean I like hurting people or seeing people hurt.
I am no sociopath. I am no sadist.

So that's it: I hurt her, and I wish
I hadn't.

I apologized a few times. I went
out and bought some ginger-ale for my stomach and some flowers for
her.

The flowers are drying-up laying on
their side, untouched on the counter in the kitchen.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

I answer the phone
from an unknown caller
“Hi” she says.
Yes?
“Do you know who this is?…” she asks.
No - do you know who this is?
She laughs.
“Kylee Carr (sic?) - porn-star, blond hair, blue eyes.”
O.K ….(then I maintain silence - I prefer the awkwardness)
“...eh - yeah - I think I have the wrong number.” she hangs up.

I resume my business, and imagine
she is now in the process
of calling
the right number
I am certain
does not belong to her dad.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

...don’t you dare take your eyes of the youngons and the
lame around the castle walls, particularly at night: the inbred genetically
fucked pedophillic psychopaths have a penchant for snatching them and doing
things unfit for print…No sir –
you trust a politician, wall st. banker and media-man about as far as you trust
a drug-pusher: with a healthy skepticism and under the assumption that if your
not looking they will seize your daughter and your wallet fromyou…hell, some of the more brazen ones might
give it a shot right in front of you – and mumble they are helping you –
an ol’ pal – out…indeed.

We are
living in stupefying and maniacal times, daddy-o: when criminals don’t run wild
in the streets – what’s the point?They get involved in government.They don’t rob banks, they own them.Now that’s
progress.You don’t have to risk your hide and your manhood by
piloting cessnas into back-ass war-zones and unload your firearms to a gang of
motley desperados…Hell no: you can become the prez. or one of his right-hand
cronies…The president of these
hallowed Vile States is the grand-duke of drug pushers, the mightiest of the
gun-runners, the most formidable pimp, and the most untouchable racketeer on
the planet – save perhaps some musty eurotrash royals stuffing laudanum in
their brandies and painting their vile faces with lead-based poisons…why do
they all look like reptiles?...Anyway – you name the crime, they’ve got the
market cornered…

Thursday, January 24, 2013

“I am the front-man of this gawd-awful dump of a nation, the
drones prove it is so.Strike
while the iron is scalding and the fuel is in the unmanned aerial missile.Death from above!”Raises both fists into the air. “I just
thought of something - the prince of the power of the air, isn’t that fitting?...
Anyway, I told the pimply-faced
‘pilot’ (holds back a chuckle)‘Good job, squirt, you pulled that trigger like a man and now we will
invite you to the White House kiddy orgy, sponsored by BBC and the Sandusky
trust.Trust me- I am an old pro at this
carnival-political- weird ritual stuff.Kill a kid to save a kid, that’s what the vampire royals say…and you
know I roll with that fast crowd’.”Feedback from the PA that pipes in to every house, cell-phone, laptop,
car, shopping mall, airport terminal, and office-building.“Listen up, you slaves:I am going to pry your shotguns from
your cold dead hands – which is the way I prefer it, because quite frankly I am
annoyed by your very existence.But I promise to put them to good use, perhaps fork them over to those
classy Mexican drug cartels that my Bank Handlers love working with so very
much, or those lovable bad-news al-Qae·da or Qai·da or Cia-duh or however it’s spelled
rapscallions burning down the middle east and north Africa right now… Oh – how
I love it – the blood, the carnage…”(Later on, at a secret meeting on the outskirts of town: “My name is BS
and I am a blood fiend (the circle chants “hello BS”)..I rolled with the commies in the
eighties…I am a closet Face Artist (nothing wrong with that, eh? Elevator eyes
as the brows furrow up and down at a rapid pace)… I assassinate people around
the world and get a Nobel peace prize – I am a regular James fuckin’ Bond!!!
That’s what my coked-out yahoo Wall St. handlers like to call me.) Back to the
speech:“So – how should I cook
this rotten maggot-filled carcass of a morbidly-obese country?We can’t even dine on your flesh
anymore because it’s all blubber, botox, chemicals of unknown composition,
pharmaceuticals, dirt, plastic, cheap Wall-mart perfumes, deodorants, weird
drugs, bath-salts, and shitload of genetically altered foods—we take a bite out
of you creatures and we’re asking for immediate acute shingles and violent
chronic diarrhea….”The crowd
roars.